David was born in Liverpool in 1964. He left school with nothing, rummaged around various dead end jobs, then back to college and uni. In his 20s he first discovered poetry, starting writing and performing and has done so ever since. I has lived on the Wirral for the past 8 years.

Thursday, 27 February 2014

Munch, shut your Man-in-the-Moon mouth,
listen to Ray Charles Cheshire Cat grin
that only and ever sunshine. "People are jazzed,"
said Omar A. Hurricane, laser scientist
leading a fusion project. The French pursue
the energy paradigm shift via
the Russian acronym tokamak,
which is not a Wampanoag word
like Pawtucket, where the American
industrial Revolution began at Slater's
(not Sutter's, that's the Gold Rush) Mill.
Pawtucket means where sweet water
falls into salt tides obeying Ocean
and Moon. O my, the sky will fall
into our open mouths, will fill hungry bellies
for future millennia to sorrow over past
famines and our deafness and plagues.
Smile, Munch. Other side of that bridge
will be sunshine can't be taken away.

Monday, 24 February 2014

Quite complicated the traffic system is, yet a set of efficient hands are busy in making it simple and effective. Mr. Comma---a humble and useful hand- serves as a traffic police in the junction, controls the regular hustle and bustle, compartmentalises the jumbled vehicles- carrying the important ''Meaning'' for us, provides the drivers with a moment of leisure to be refreshed for a while and directs them to race on the way of destination one by one in a disciplined and a meaningful way. An indispensible hand it seems- so what? We like saluting the reformations. Prof. John Mc Whorter, one of the famous system directors, likes to introduce a post-curtailment process, raises his new sword on the neck of the old-Mr. Comma, convinces the world about his poor significance and assures the smooth running of the system without the presence of Mr. Comma, the world says,'' Let's see''.

Sunday, 23 February 2014

And so, another week has flashed past. I can scarcely believe that we are almost into March already. It seems like only yesterday we were putting our little Christmas tree back in its place in the garden but now, those who are prepared to brave the cold, are being rewarded with the first signs of spring. Yes, here in Cornwall, the wild weather has abated somewhat, although much damage has been done around our coastline: many local business have suffered badly and some-much loved landmarks have been entirely washed away. My own home, which is well inland and eight hundred feet above sea level, was spared the effects of the flooding. Even so, we did have damage to the roof as a result of unusually high winds. Our thoughts are with those who are still having to live with the aftermath of the recent storms.On with the business of the week, though, and I think it was an interesting one, We began with Tim McLafferty's economical and hard-hitting 'Zoo' which brings together two news stories, both disturbing in themselves, to powerful effect. Thank you, Tim, for continuing to submit to 'Poetry24'.On Tuesday, we went for a complete contrast with Melinda Rizzo's poem 'For Shirley Temple Black'. I liked this poem immediately because of my own experience, as a very small child, of having my hair curled in rags. My own mother is a contemporary of Shirley Temple Black and, as a child herself, she greatly admired the young Shirley Temple. Later, when she became a mother - and I was her first child - obviously, she wanted me to look just like her heroine. It wasn't easy. I was a bit of a tomboy and I fought her all the way. Unless you have endured it, you can have no idea how impossible it is to sleep comfortably when your head is a mass of knotted strips of linen. It was my first encounter with the idea that 'you have to suffer to be beautiful'. As soon as I was big enough, I dug in my heels and wore my hair long and very straight. Wednesday's poem was Martha Landman's 'You Don't Get Away With These Things' which refers to the ongoing investigations surrounding the death, on Valentine's Day last year, of Reeva Steenkampf. I can't help noticing that the name that gets most of the coverage is not Reeva's but rather that of Oscar Pistorius whose lawyers must be hoping that, with the passing of time, the world has forgotten the circumstances surrounding this young woman's tragic death.Martha's poem has been skillfully written but I particularly admire the following stanza:The fragrance of atonement is cheaper

than a finger for a finger, so we light

candles for the genocides, we mourn

as we lay our wreaths along the road.

On Thursday, it was the turn of another regular contributor, Philip Johnson whose 'little englander's end' was prompted by the resignation of immigration minister, Mark Harper. In this poem, Philip writes, tellingly of 'the jack ass politician' who 'ate at his own ass until at last / the final break of wind/ was blown'. There you go, Mark, that's how the fortune cookie crumbles. With any luck, your resignation from this government will not be the last.

Melinda Rizzo lives and works as a freelance reporter and writer in Quakertown, Bucks County Pennsylvania USA.The child of older parents who have both died, she grew up watching old black and white Shirley Temple movies. She lives with a teenaged son, her husband of 35 years, and a black Labrador named Caleb in an old, drafty, lovingly restored farmhouse.

Sunday, 16 February 2014

Mari Maxwell's poem "Robotic, surely not?" started our week with a tongue-in-cheek look at bionics and where it could lead. There's some great imagery in this:So that every touch by hubbyhad pieces whirring, stirring too.Nuts ‘n bolts slotting into place Angela Carr's "Right of Reply" was Tuesday's poem which looked at a massive payout to people who took offence at a radio announcer. The poem has just the right tone of icy anger as shown in the last two lines.Peacemakers, merciful, meek and pureshow us why the rewards of righteousness are yoursRichard Jones' poem "Morecombe Bay cockling disaster" reminded us all of the terrible events of 10 years ago. There is a lovely feeling of China in this poem which overlays the disaster with the extra sadness of being so far away from home.
Their solemn secrets traded
and pass.
Black Sea, Black Sand
you shall see Fujian no more.Ian Whitely's poem "The Walkin' Man" finished the week for us with a great tribute to Pete Seeger. He is a legend. There's some great imagery in this poem and lines that evoke the loneliness that Seeger must have felt.
A lonely figure steps out and walks into the moon
at the top of a country road, whistling a mournful tune.

Friday, 14 February 2014

Serendipity Spangle was a walkin’ man -of that, there is no doubt,he walked across great continents and was seen round here about.With his low slung jeans and guitar, he had no need for fancy suits,he just roamed the great blue yonder in his worm down cowboy boots .

Those who were there at his birth cross their hearts and tell no lies -they say he came into this world singing and walked straight from his mammas thighsout into the dustbowl road out there where he promptly disappearedinto the heart of America and was folk and country reared.

He walked the fields of Gettysburg, dried the tears of the crying.He strolled the trenches of the Somme and comforted the dying.He raised the flag at Iwo Jima, hung his head at Nagasaki,stirred the spirit in Vietnam - his heart is red and khaki.

He’s been around a long, long time and many times he’s died,but he walks into the valley of the shadow of death and comes out the other sidewith a pale horse trailing behind him, riderless and out of breath,Serendipity Spangle always wins the wrestle with Death.

For the poor, the weak, the hopeless - he will pacify the soul,the depressed, the hurt, the dispossessed - chew it up and swallow it whole.With his raging songs of freedom, you will hear the old folk talk,of the time that Serendipity Spangle stopped by on his long walk.

You hear his footsteps echoing along these highways of dustwhen Bob or Bruce or Pete Seeger ask you to place your trustin poetry and a guitar and a minstrel of the road.Serendipity Spangle will help you carry your heavy load.

A lonely figure steps out and walks into the moonat the top of a country road, whistling a mournful tune.When the sun rises tomorrow his footsteps will have blown awayon a warm and soothing prairie breeze. Walkin’ into another day.

Angela is a poet & writer based in Dublin, Ireland. Winner of the Cork Literary Review Manuscript Competition in 2013, her debut collection will be published by Bradshaw Books in 2014. More at www.adreamingskin.com.

Monday, 10 February 2014

Do you think they could do that -With my boobs?Make them bionic, supersonic flues?So that every touch by hubbyhad pieces whirring, stirring too.Nuts ‘n bolts slotting into place -shifting, right or left with a twist of a screw.A lever or key.I’d be happy to forgo the flashing red lights.The warning alarms of a compact working crew.

But would we even know what to do?How would we ever handle these self-propelled titties?How many floors, upstairs or down?Decorators, contractors, fabrics and wood. Refurbishment sounds cool but surely these’d do?

And could they create a spaceship? One floor or two?Where I could store breast milk for a baby I knew.Could there be caverns that would happily rotate?Clockwise and counter, shifting into place.Releasing packaged milk for a bairn or two.Maybe even lunch or dinner, yahoo!I could happily go braless with my nippleless chest. Content with the Crème brûlée mounds I love best.My silicone pair I consider mighty.Even after the cancer, chemo, radiation blues.Let’s face it - they’re new. Me too.A few replacements or two,now they sit ever so sedate.My very own motley troop.

And when we were done with our lusty crew,might we consider recycling those cubicles too?Trips across the sea, continents away.Bermuda. Malaysia. Bathing suits and all.Ryanair flights with no extra baggage.My mammaries packed free with minimal carriage.

BIO: Along with letting it all hang out, Mari is a 14-year survivor of Inflammatory Breast Cancer. Her writing is forthcoming in Veils, Halos and Shackles: International Poetry on the Abuse and Oppression of Women. Her work was also shortlisted in the 2014 Walking on Thin Ice Short Story Contest, [A short story contest where writers fight back against stigma and institutional power] Her work was also longlisted in the 2013 Over the Edge New Writer of the Year. She has previously had the thrill of being published with Poetry 24.

Sunday, 9 February 2014

This week we began with a very beautiful and very evocative poem which, incidentally, also proved to be among our 'most commented' ever. It was Angela T. Carr's 'At The Library'. On reading this delightful piece, I was immediately taken back to the time when I was twelve years old and an almost daily visitor at my small village library. I was voracious reader then but, admittedly, not very discerning one since I came from a home where books were a luxury we could seldom afford. Armed with my parents tickets, I borrowed and read anything and everything that took my fancy: Rupert Brooke, Oscar Wilde, Aldous Huxley, it is true; also, however, 'Jill Has Two Ponies' and anything by Jean Plaidy. It was good to be reminded of such times, Thank you, Angela.

On Tuesday, our poet of the day was Laura Taylor with 'Judging Justin', a poem which exposes the dangers posed to young people especially by our 'celebrity culture'. It isn't a new thing, of course; I think of Shirley Temple, Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney and others; on the other hand, it seems undeniable that things are getting worse in a world which seems to know the price of everything and the value of not much at all.

On Wednesday it was the turn of David Mellor and his tribute to 'Philip Seymour Hoffman'. We thank you, David, for marking this loss. We thank, too, Martha Landman for her brief but exquisitely beautiful poem 'Blood Cry'. All I can say about this one is that , if you missed it on Thursday, do click on the link now and make good that omission.

Our final poem this week was 'The Statue of Nelson Mandela' by Pijush Kanti Deb, a response to the story about the small statue of the rabbit hidden in the great man's ear. This was a great story to chose to write about, Pijush Kanti Deb, and we are delighted you sent your poem to us.

Thursday, 6 February 2014

The serenity in Abruzzo valley lies shattered. Vineyards framed by weathered stone houses unveil sad songs to a little San Pietro della Ienca church. Dogs sniff for stolen blood along ski slopes, the smell of iron like death in the air. A pontiff’s love in gold and glass soars like a speck of dust astir. Every new year in blood- soaked cassocks, every papacy distraught.

Monday, 3 February 2014

Note: Prior to the second decade of the 21st Century, information was held in a paper format called books; these were stored in building mainframes known as Libraries.

Its sleepy silence grounds me; traffic noisedoused in the sweep of a carousel door,only the brisk clip of shoe leatheron the dull copper burnish of herringboneparquet; the pattering of typewriter keys;the rubber stamp's thunk-thunk and the crisp lickof a turning page, dog-eared, yellowedby impatient thumbs and tracing fingers;and the ghosts of a thousand whispered questions,wary of disturbing calf-bound reverie,where the magnetic pull of a paper North,travels pulp mountains and rivered ink,stirs the golden dust motes, hung in the morningwindow, and my imagination to flight.

Angela is a poet & writer based in Dublin, Ireland. Winner of the Cork Literary Review Manuscript Competition in 2013, her debut collection will be published by Bradshaw Books in 2014. More atwww.adreamingskin.com.

Sunday, 2 February 2014

Monday's poem was "I Hear No Music" by Martha Landman which looked at a recent case in Texas involving a brain dead, pregnant woman. It is a very evocative poem and this stanza is very powerful.

I am the music I’ll never hearthe Nicaragua I’ll never seeI am my brother’s raven hair.

Tuesday brought Philip Johnson's poem "the second half of a pair of shoes wishes me a good day" which is very critical of the UK Prime Minister hailing a recovery that has escaped the eye of just about everyone else. There's some great imagery in this poem such as:sat there in his cardboard box with his big broad smiletapping together his feet - a plimsoll on his left footoddly a wellington on the right.

Sarah Clancy's Thursday poem "Selfie" quite shocked me because I had not heard of the incident before. This silencing of protest is getting to be quite popular with the ruling classes. The last three lines speak to and for us all. I don't blame it all right.

the self won’t get up out of bed todayand I don’t blame it,I'll have to leave without it.